The salt roads are the worst place to start. Darn your tongue with my needled want, my sweated palms. The taste of oleander isn’t as bitter as it should be. Blossom down, root up, this noonday sun is tomorrow’s good night. If I pitch my
tent somewhere in the shade of the sugar blossom tree, will you think I’m sweet? Crocodiles snap their jaws at the scent of lemons, but they only peel the rinds if you’re still bleeding. Don’t let the camels near the oasis. They fall to their knees
in despair, bleating. I’ve got six humps of my own and two coiled snakes for cigarettes. I’ll smoke them later, to the rattle-taled tune of your lungs going soft. Maybe I’ll drink too, blow the absinthe after of cool swallow into your eyes. Sight
deceives us as much as we ask it to. Pack your bags with myrrh and lavender, oil your soles with the sweat of kings, rock your pockets with alabaster crystals. No one will remember your name, but they’ll touch your body in search of promises.
Somewhere there is an island with my name on it. I don’t even know what that means. But it’s true. Look, I tell stories for a living. Sit. Listen. This ending is the one commodity you’d be willing to kill me for.
Really quick write tonight. Thinking about travel and loved ones far away. Thinking about the taste of things on my tongue. Thinking about what nourishes us.